


The Wrong (Right) Kind of Red

by SecondFromTheRight



Category: The Killing
Genre: Extended Scene, F/M, Holder's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 22:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondFromTheRight/pseuds/SecondFromTheRight
Summary: Linden keeps her head bowed, all he can see is her hair. Red. The right kind of red. Fiery, copper. Oranges, and rusts. Not like blood, not the deep scarlet that he’d washed off him, that he fucked up and missed on his jacket.Extended 4x01 scene.





	The Wrong (Right) Kind of Red

“What?” Holder asks, exhaling smoke and frowning at Linden as she stares at his shoulder like she’s seen a ghost. If shit was normal he’d make a joke, niggle her, ask her if she’s getting enough sleep, something stupid about knowing he’s the embodiment of magnificence but his face is up here, but his mind is full of blood and his boss' dead body and sticking to the plan and everything they need to do to get out of this mess. He turns his head to look behind him, wondering what the hell she’s so intent on, annoyed that she’s not listening to him enough as they go over the plans.

“There’s blood,” she says, letting out a breath. “There’s blood, on your coat.” she repeats, pointing at him.

He follows her focus, looking down at the shoulder of his jacket and it’s there like she is said, plain as day. “Shit.” He breathes, the panic closing in on him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He shuffles out of his bomber jacket, switching his smoke to his other hand and shaking the jacket off him as if he can do the same with the whole night. Linden’s up from her chair and walking towards him, closing in on him too, pushing some of the panic away.

“You were supposed to clean up!” she admonishes him and she stands at her 5'2'' in front of it. “Put your arms up!” she demands and like he has their whole relationship, he instantly yields to her, letting her take control.

“I did!” he replies as she feels her way up his arm and around the back of his shoulders, her hands checking every inch of his hoodie. “I mean, I…I took a shower and I changed my clothes,” he continues as she circles around him. He stands still, pliable in her arms. “But it's the only jacket I got.” He puts his smoke down on the table as Linden crouches down to her hands and knees at his feet, checking his jeans. “Fuck!” he curses, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“It’s okay, I’ll wash it out.” Linden reassures him and then she’s gone, leaving for the kitchen with his jacket.

Holder paces in small steps, trying to get his breathing under control “Okay,” he tries to calm himself down, folding his arms and tucking his hands under his pits, then over his forearms as he gets a grip of himself.

Linden comes back into the room, her head down as she moves towards him, and shit he wants to see her face. He needs to remember why the fuck this is happening, what he’s doing it for. She’s in front of him before he can see her though and then she’s pulling down the zip of his hoodie, pushing the material back and using her hands and her eyes to search his t-shirt for more evidence he’s left on himself.

“Linden.” He says in a heavy pant, letting her shove the hoodie off his shoulders and down his arms. She gets behind him, tugging the sleeves down and off his arms. He keeps still but turns his head to try to see her. Like before, Holder lets her manoeuvre him how she wants, twisting his arms when she yanks the hoodie fully off him and throws it onto the chair. “Wha…” he mutters, watching as she comes back at him and puts her hands on his t-shirt again, covering every inch of it. She does as she did already, running her hands meticulously over his chest, his arms, his shoulders, whether material or skin.

He bows his head and lets out a stifled cry, exhaling heavily through his nose. He screws his eyes closed when she reaches the other side of him. How can this be the way she gets in his space this much? Always so careful to never get too close and she now she’s all over him, looking for blood because she killed someone and he helped her dispose of the body. It’s like some kind of fucked reward for being in this with her. For helping her bury her lover, he gets to finally feel her. Shit.

“Put your arms up.” She repeats the same demand as earlier. Keeping his head bowed, he again does as he’s told. Linden grabs at the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it up his body until she’s reaching way past her height – she’s gotta be on her tip-toes – and lifting the t-shirt over his head until it’s off.

He feels the chill immediately, Sarah Linden's house as cold and unapproachable as she is. Maybe she keeps it cold because she likes keeping those ugly-ass sweaters all day long no matter what, or maybe it’s because she refuses to let herself ever feel at home enough to be cosy and comfortable. So now he stands topless in her living room, cold as hell. She repeats her process, going up his arm, around his shoulder, but he can feel her this time. Her hot hands compared to the chill of the house, running over his skin, his tats and knowing what he got each one of them for, knowing him. He hunches his shoulders and curls in on himself when she reaches his other arm. She keeps her head down, nothing distracting Linden from a task. But he stares down at her, waiting for her to look at him again.

As she stands in front of him again, he lets his arms hang as his sides. Her hand lies flat on his chest, over his 'Serenity', and she keeps it there, staring at it and never raising her damn head to look at him. He’s an endless fuck up, his body with his attempts at trying to be better, proof that maybe he can be worth something someday, written lessens inked on him. Permanent reminders. Tonight he did the worst thing he’s ever done, but he can’t feel like it was the wrong thing. He had to, he had to help her. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

“Linden,” he tries again and she does lift her head this time, all the way to meet his eyes. She still looks like shit, wrecked, as much as he is. “Put your arms up.” Comes out of his mouth.

He doesn’t really expect her to listen, she never listens to a damn thing he says, but part of him thinks she owes him this, to just for once surrender to him in some kind of way like he always has to her, to do the same thing she demands of him, to not fight him on every single thing just because she can’t ever lose any control. What else could he possibly have to do show she’s safe with him? She does what he asks though, raising both her arms until they’re by her head and for a second he sees her in front of Pastor Mike again, and then he imagines her in front of their own precinct who find out what she’s done. He pushes at the underside of both her arms so they’re higher, straighter, above her head, changing the image for something else. He checks her sweater, knowing he’s not going to find anything. She won’t have fucked up like he has already, Linden’s fuck ups aren’t on full display, aren’t anything the average world could notice like blood on a jacket, like blown pupils or twitching shakes or street clothes. They’re deeper. Mystery ex husband, confidentially filed psychiatric admittance, a son 1000’s of miles away, a body in the lake - except now they have that one together. He has to hope it stays as buried as everything else Linden keeps to herself. That no one like him with some pathetic need to dig into all she won’t say will come along.

Bunching the hem of the sweater he tugs it up an inch and then waits for her okay. She gives a nod, bobbing her head twice. He’s reminded how damn tiny she is compared to him when he gets the ugly thing over her head and off. She’s in a white t-shirt. Bare arms. Something he’s so rarely seen. The main time he did he couldn’t even enjoy it because she was drugged up, vulnerable in a way he didn’t know she was capable of and sitting in a resident's chair of a psych unit. Asking her not to leave her there. Her armour of layers of wool and cotton had been stripped away from her, she hadn’t given it up. So he couldn’t count it. He couldn’t leave her then, no matter how many rules he had to break or people he had to get in the face of, and he couldn’t leave her tonight, no matter how much blood he got on him.

“She’s your responsibility now.” Sonoma had told him then. He doesn’t know if he’s lived up to that. If he had, surely he would have been able to stop her before she took the first shot, or the second, before there was a body. But he couldn’t get through to her. Wasn’t enough. He should have been better, should have been faster getting there, he should have –

“Holder.” Linden whispers, breaking the silence of the large house.

Too late now, he thinks, realising he’s still holding onto the sweater. He never wanted to be her keeper anyway, only ever her equal. That’s why he did what he did tonight, including himself in something he didn’t have to, but he had to. He tosses the sweater on the chair with his hoodie and his own t-shirt and then runs his hands up Linden’s arms, starting at her wrists. He covers the space quickly, his much hands larger. He goes back down the way, noticing the goosebumps that break out as he does. Maybe she ain’t immune after all, maybe the cold can still touch her.

He grips the bottom of her t-shirt and waits again for her go-ahead. She lifts her arms automatically this time, up and straight. Following through he pulls the t-shirt up, revealing pale skin, until he has to tug it when it catches on her hair, her permanent ponytail in the way. He adds it to the pile of clothes.

Linden keeps her head bowed, all he can see is her hair. Red. The right kind of red. Fiery, copper. Oranges, and rusts. Not like blood, not the deep scarlet that he’d washed off him, that he fucked up and missed on his jacket.

Holder doesn’t have to circle around his partner like she did him. His height allows him to practically blanket her from where he is, can see that the only red that’s still marking her is that hair. He goes for it, the ponytail. He tugs the hair-tie, figures she won’t allow him this. It’s rarer than bare arms, only seeing it down once when he decided to knock on the door back into her life, dragging her back into this nightmare. She’d only allowed it for a few minutes then before she went all Linden on him and tied it back again. But it was still different from her usual, off her neck. He’d lapped that up, thinking he was getting somewhere, until Boatman Cody walked in and he realised her relaxation had everything to do with the hook up and nothing to do with him and she’d zipped up again, practically fucking staring him down until he gave up and left. In this room, he’d sat on the chair their combined clothes are now chilling on. Their partnership on that case started that day, in this room. And it’s gotta end tonight, in this same room.

Instead of closing up until he’s out the door, she dips her head further now, actually encouraging letting him untie her hair. He grabs the opportunity while he can, knowing that door’s probably gonna slam again soon.

Slowly he pulls the hair-tie loose until Linden’s hair is everywhere. He runs his hands through it, soft and thick, not like the slickness of blood. He wants this red. He’d happily have a strand of it on his jacket. There’s some in the car sometimes, but she never touches him enough for it to get on him. Until now. Ducking his hands under her arms he feels the ends of her hair as it hangs against her back. He presses it against her skin, his fingers pushing through here and there until he’s touching both her skin and her hair.

Linden tilts her head, turning to the right until she’s tucked under his chin. Her hair moves with her, sitting on her shoulder. He brings his hand up and pulls some of it forward so it’s hanging at her front instead.

He runs his fingers through her hair with both hands until he’s cupping the back of her head and tilting her head towards him. “Sarah.” He says, figuring 3 for 3 one-offs sounds right for this. 4 if he counts her touching him so much. But she keeps her eyes closed for a few more seconds before opening them and staring up at him.

He doesn’t know if he can do this, if he can keep all this shit together for the both of them. He has to try, but Holder’s so used to failing, to giving in and falling off the wagon, he doesn’t know if he can do this. He’s already coming apart. And tonight he has to go back to the Stephen Holder that everybody but Linden knows him as. He has to go back to Caroline. He’s risking all of it for Linden, but he doesn’t even get to have her. Not past this. It has to stay in this room. This morning he’d thought about saying that yeah, yeah he’s jealous, thought about asking her what is so special about him that he’s the one guy she works with that she doesn’t wanna jump into bed with. Maybe he’s got that answer now, maybe it’s this. He’s the only one of them who’d help her bury a body and only want to touch her hair in return.

They don’t even have the time for this. They have to go, Linden’s gotta talk to Adrian, Holder’s gotta talk to Reddick, explain shit away. They should have been back hours ago. They don’t have time for this, but he needs it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> <https://secondfromtheright.tumblr.com/>


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